


The Neighbors

by orphan_account



Category: Chess - Rice/Ulvaeus/Andersson
Genre: F/M, and most of it is black, this is a spy au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 14:38:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3329810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Sergievskys are just the family next door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi! so, i've had this idea brewing for a while and i just now got around to writing it out. i wrote two chapters to kick it off, and i hope you all enjoy!!
> 
> also: shoutout to toni (kisstheboy7) for betaing this they're the real mvp
> 
> it seems that i messed up the years; anatoly and florence have only been married for 15 years and spent 14 years in America. i'm sorry to have messed up!
> 
> ALSO: i got this idea from the fx tv show The Americans which everyone should watch

“Anatoly!” 

Florence struts into the house, clad in a scarlet dress, hair curled. “Where are you?”

“In here,” he calls from the bathroom, and she strides in hands him a tape. “What is this?”

“Evidence,” she tells him, a sly smile on her face. He cocks his head to the side, zipping up his fly. She sighs. “Remember the FBI agent that we ran into the other day at the store? Who pretty much led that drug bust behind the Wal-Mart?”

“Vaguely,” he answers, a bit apprehensive but interested nonetheless.

“I 'ran' into him again today. I lured him into bed, and he gave me more than enough information.” 

“Information _about?_ ” 

“About the FBI. He told me he was stressed and I was able to squeeze a lot of stuff out of him.” She smirks. “What have _you_ done today?”

Anatoly pauses for a minute, an incredulous look on his face, then smiles. “You're unbelievable.”

“I know.”  
\- - - -   
Florence Vassy joined the KGB when she was twenty.

She wasn't quite sure how they had even found out about her, honestly. She didn't live in Russia, she didn't know anyone there, and when she asks the only answer she gets is “We've been keeping tabs on you.” 

That didn't make her feel any safer. 

One question was how they had kept tabs on her; she never had an established home. She had been in and out of foster homes all over England. She wasn't even sure where her family was, but they seemed to know every single person who ever had legal guardianship over her. 

She was hesitant at first, of course. Who wouldn't be when a government notorious for cruelty asked to join their dangerous agency? 

It wasn't until an older, experienced male agent said “Perhaps you could find your father...” that she accepted. 

Florence had thought in the back of her mind that they're lying, that they'll never find her father, but they tell her that they will. That Russia is strong, that Russia will protect her, but only if she does what they say. Russia will not turn it's back on her. She has no choice but to believe them-after all, who knows what could happen if she turned way now?

She was just an impressionable twenty year old girl with nothing to her name. She was the perfect subject for abuse that, she was told, was for the good of her country. They tell her that all she has to do is do as they say, and she will be safe. 

The country that wants to use and abuse her. The country that wants to exploit her and her sexuality to their advantage. The country that wants to bait her with the promise of somehow, someday finding her father. 

But Russia is not her country. 

At least, not now. They haven't injected nationalistic pride into her yet, and she doesn't intend to let them do so. 

She accepts the offer. 

What does she have to lose?  
\- - -   
Florence doesn't really know why she's still attached to her country.

Which country is hard to say. Hungary or Russia, she's never sure. She hasn't been to either one in years. She would think she would be used to suburban life in America, after living there for fifteen years. But there's something...odd about it. About the fact that everyone pretends that everything is okay when she knows it's not, especially in America's rival country. About the fact that there are no concentration camps, no inhumane, greedy leaders eating expensive caviar with grubby hands while half the population starves.

Okay, maybe that last part isn't true. 

But she finds herself remembering all of the things she's seen when she takes her children out for ice cream after soccer practice and watches them laugh and eat before it melts because how can anyone act like nothing is happening overseas when she's seen it firsthand? She can't stand it when she hears people talk about being pro-Soviet or pro-American, because she can't choose a side to stand on when both are oppressive towards those who don't hold power. 

Their children took Anatoly's last name, but go by Vassy in school-Americans have more sympathy for a Hungarian woman whose home was taken from her. People sneer whenever Anatoly speaks; his accent is impossible to hide, even if it is less ostentatious than it was when they first arrived.

If only they knew the truth.

But Florence always pushes it to the back of her mind. She has a job to do, and speaking out against Russia could cost her her life and her family. She simply does what they tell them. She can't even confide in her husband (who is only her husband legally-there are no emotional attachments, at least, not in the seventeen years they've been together) because he is completely, almost disgustingly dedicated to the USSR. He says he isn't pro-Russia, but his heart is still stuck there. She never tells him, but she wishes he would knock himself out of it, realize that his home isn't what he makes it out to be. Of course, it was his home; she guesses that she can't understand because she never had a home of her own. 

America is the longest she's lived in any one place, and it _still_ doesn't feel like a home. She's not sure what to think anymore, really.

“Florence?” Anatoly's voice breaks her out of her daze, and she snaps her head around. 

“What?” 

“Are you alright?” he asks. For a moment, she thinks she sees actual concern for her in his eyes, as they got deep and brown and dreamy, and not fake interest in her mental state, meant for the their children's eyes, their ears. But then it disappears, and she sighs.

“I'm fine,” she answers breathlessly, turning her back to him. 

He moves his hands up her waist and wraps his arms around her, and she flinches in response. “You don't seem fine,” he whispers.

She jerks away from him. Even after all these years, whenever he tries to be sensual outside of the bedroom, it feels awkward. Forced. “Don't do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don't want you to, that's why, and I _do_ have a knife in my hand,” she reminds him, and he releases her, alarmed. She goes back to the dishes, and he stays silent as he watches her.

“I'm working late tonight,” she says, after a tense moment. 

“For?”

“Private business.”

“That's vague.”

“You're not exactly a straightforward man yourself,” Florence mumbles. 

Anatoly glares. 

“I hope this 'private business' is important,” he says, turned to the fridge. “It must be important enough to not tell me about it.” When he closes it, Florence swears she sees him almost pouting. She rolls her eyes.

“I'll tell you when I get home, Anatoly,” she grumbles, obviously irritated. 

“I am expecting you to.”

“I always do. Now, go to work.”

Anatoly pauses, then kisses her on the cheek. “Love you.”

“Mhmm.”

She waits until he's out of sight to go to the bedroom. 

She has another meeting with another agent, whether they be KGB or FBI she doesn't know or care. All she knows is that she has to get the job done. If she doesn't, who will? 

Florence changes into a black dress, fixing her chest until she shows just enough cleavage and tosses a different tape recorder in her bag, leaving the other tape on the nightstand for Anatoly to listen to when he comes home. She doesn't feel like sitting and listening to it with him. A tape will do.

A mother and wife by day, a spy and whore by night. 

This isn't exactly how she'd expected her life to turn out.


	2. Chapter 2

For some reason, listening to the tape Florence left for him leaves a sick feeling in Anatoly's stomach.

He doesn't love her, he tells himself. He never has. The only things he loves are his children and Russia. 

Well, of course he loves her, but he doesn't _love_ her. So he can't really understand why he feels so nauseated. 

Of course, it was part of the job-and it wasn't as if Anatoly hadn't done such things with women and men alike. He feels terrible, too, for thinking that way, as if she can only do what he wants her to do. It's not as if she can do what she wants in the first place. Everything they do, every breathe they take, every child they love is for Russia. A sacrifice he knew he had to make when he joined. 

Their heated exclamations-in English _and_ Russian-sentiments are too much for him to bear, and he silently wishes that she had started recording afterwards. He could hardly bear to listen to her being had by another man, a man who sounded to be twice her age, and the image disgusted him. He quickly shoves the tape into his nightstand, sitting on the side of his bed and reeling. 

_It's only disgusting now because you have children,_ he thinks. _Yes, that must be it._

They had never been open. They always kept to themselves. Everything was a secret; he doubts that they would have even met if they hadn't been forced to. 

He sighs. Oh, well. 

All in a day's work.  
\- - -  
Anatoly was twenty-three when he was drafted.

He would be serving his country, they all said. He would be upholding the laws set to keep his mother country a perfect utopia. He believes them; after all, it must be true.

He was a good looking prospect. His family had a history of service to the Russian government, and it only seemed right to keep the tradition alive and well. Even though it wasn't something he had dreamed of, he decided to join. At least, he thought, it would be interesting. 

In reality, he had wanted to play chess. He kicks himself for not starting when he was younger, for he could have a promising career in chess for his country. He would still be serving it, anyhow. Just not in the way the generations before him would have liked. 

The training is brutal. Spending entire days in a gym, listening to a man stronger than him bark in Russian when he makes one slip up. The unforgiving tone of his voice when he can't go on any longer but he must, because it's for the good of his country, of it's people. 

He will be strong. He _will_ protect his country.

He loses touch with his family. They were always close; he didn't grow up in the best of conditions, and shared tight spaces with his siblings, but they had each other.

And now, even while serving his country, he feels more alone than ever.

He tells himself that he loves Russia, that all the trials and tribulations will be worth it in the end.  
But he goes home beat-up, bloody and bruised, and he can't remember why he decided to do this in the first place.

Maybe he will on his first mission.  
\- - -  
“Mama!”

The toddler stumbles over to Florence, face covered in a sticky mess as toddler's faces always are.“Hi, love,” Florence says, a bemused smile spreading across her face. 

“What are you doing?” her daughter asks eagerly, trying to look over the counter and standing on her tiptoes.

“Making food for the new neighbor.”

“New neighbor?” Her face lights up. “Are they my age?”

Florence smiles and shakes her head. “No, sweetie, he's an adult. Like me and Papa.”

“Does he have kids?”

“No. But it'll be nice to greet him. Heaven knows it's hard to move to a new place.” She takes another glance at her daughter and sighs. “Come here, let me clean your face.”

Anatoly comes into the room after seeing their eldest off to school, and some strange feeling courses through his veins when he sees his wife and daughter in the kitchen. His daughter is sitting on the island and Florence getting upset with her when she finds another scrape on her knee and this is why you don't ride your bike as fast as you possibly can around the street, Michelle. 

He thinks the feeling might be love, but he isn't entirely too sure. 

Feelings had become muddled to him recently. One day he was completely devoted to Russia, and then to his children, and then his wife, and it was always unpredictable to what he would be faithful to that day. He tries to push it to the back of his mind and focus on the here and now and what he can control.

Michelle is the first to notice him, and she smiles widely (she's just lost a tooth and there is a gap in her grin where it was), which alerts Florence. Her head snaps over and a somewhat tired smile graces her lips. “Hello-”

“Hi, Papa!” Michelle calls, and he beams and moves closer. 

“Hello,” he says, eyes lighting up, and she wraps her little arms around his torso. He has to peel her off of him, and he catches Florence watching, looking exhausted, eyes tired and hair in a messy updo, as if she didn't get any sleep at all. When she had slipped into the bed that night, he had woken up to her tossing and turning, shaking the bed. It had been difficult to go back to sleep. 

She probably had a long night, if the tape had been any proof of how she had been spending her time. The thought unnerves him.

He leans over to kiss her. “Morning, kotenok,” he murmurs. She sighs and closes her eyes. 

“Good morning,” she says quietly, and when she opens her eyes they look tired. 

“Mama, can I go to the ice cream truck?” their daughter asks, tugging in the hem of Florence's skirt. “I have money from the Tooth Fairy.”

“Yes, go,” Florence says, and she jumps off the island and outside. As soon as she's out of earshot, Anatoly rounds on her.

“Do you have a tape from last night?” he asks. 

“Hold on, don't bombard me,” she mumbles, moving away from him to stand beside the oven. “Did you listen to the one I left yesterday?” 

“Yes, I did-and I think it would have benefited us _both_ if you started recording after you have sex with the man.”

Florence groans. “It's never been a problem before.”

“But it's a problem now,” he counters, and she slams a pan on the stove. He groans. “What is it now?” 

“I think it would benefit us both if you don't tell me how I do my job,” she tells him, exasperated.

“I'm not, I'm simply saying that it's uncomfortable to hear some man having sex with my wife who sounds like he's fifty.”

“Well, what do you suggest I do?” she asks, making a point to be turned away from him. 

“Get out of the bed and make it seem like you're getting something when you're actually starting to record.”

“It's not that easy.”

“And why not?”

“Well, he would ask where I'm going and if I'm leaving. Usually, after sex, they want to put their arm around me and say 'Wow, that was great' when it really wasn't, and then you have to agree, and it makes it harder to slip away,” she tells him, all while quickly cutting up a pan of brownies, looking down. “You're just going to have to deal with it.”

“It just...makes me uncomfortable,” he admits.

“Well, who's the one having sex with hairy, pasty fifty year old men?” she asks, and he shuts up and blanches. “Get ready to go.”

“Go where?” 

“Across the street to meet the new neighbor.”

“Why?” 

“Because we need to seem normal, that's why,” she says smartly. “I'll get Michelle ready, whenever she comes back.”  
\- - -  
Freddie is not a people person. 

When he'd first moved into the neighborhood, he had hoped that no one would come to visit with cole slaw or mashed potatoes in their hands. He would be much happier with just settling into his new house with his cats. Now _that_ , he thinks, is the ideal situation.

But, sadly, a family shows up on his doorstep.

The daughter, with her hair pulled into pigtails, is eating a quickly melting ice cream bar, the mother smiling with brownies in hand and the father looking very disinterested, a misplaced smile on his face. 

“Hello!” the woman exclaims, and her smile looks like it might to break her face. “We live across the street and thought it would be nice to come and greet you.”

Freddie sneers at the girl, but looks reluctantly back at the woman. “Uh...sure, come in,” he says, because he figures that at this point, he has no choice.

She strides past him, walking easily in her heels, the rest of the family in tow and Freddie watches them go past him as he closes the door. “So, um, what's your name?”

“Oh, I'm Florence. This is my daughter, Michelle—oh, Michelle, wipe your face!--and this is Anatoly.”

Freddie raises an eyebrow. “Anatoly?”

“Yes. His family is Russian—they came here in the 1800's,” she explains, a forced smile still on her face, but Freddie is still skeptical. 

“I see.”

“...Why'd you move down here?” she asks, looking around the house. 

“I work for the government.”

Freddie narrows his eyes when he sees Anatoly's eyes widen.

Florence smiles, awkwardly. “The government? That's...cushy.”

“I guess so.” He raises his chin, keeping an eye on Anatoly, watching him as he talks. “Where do you work?”

“I'm a schoolteacher. My husband works at this fancy restaurant-that's actually why we moved down here,” she says, and it sounds just a bit rehearsed. 

“Oh. That's nice.” He grabs his cat out of reach of the daughter's grimy, grabbing hands are trying to grab. “Are you gonna stay around here for long, or...? I need to unpack,” he says, when really all he wants is to be alone and to get them out of his house. 

“Oh, I just came to drop off some brownies. As a housewarming gift,” she says, and hands the pan to him. “Sorry to bother you.”

“Not a problem,” Freddie mutters with a tinge of suspicion.

Florence runs a hand through her dark hair and says, “...Well, we'll get out of your way. Come on.” She herds her little family and the daughter rushes out the door and to the other side of the street, presumably to their house.

Freddie fakes a smile as he closes the door, and immediately runs to look out the window at the odd little family walking home.

He swears he sees Anatoly shift towards Florence when the daughter is inside the house and whisper two words:

“Well, fuck.”


End file.
